Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. I don’t know why that should be so acutely humiliating. "Then it is not too late to save him. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands. At last some anodyne formed itself from these exercises, and, with eyelashes wet with such feeble tears as only three-o’clock-in-the-morning pathos can distil, she fell asleep.
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